


Living in Shadows

by bioticbootyshaker



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff and Angst, Fluffy, Love, Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-29
Updated: 2012-11-29
Packaged: 2017-11-19 20:22:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/577283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bioticbootyshaker/pseuds/bioticbootyshaker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After being left behind while his brother journeys into the Deep Roads, Carver is left to wonder what good he is to anyone. <br/>Merrill has a question that makes him think seriously about what truly matters to him;<br/>"What would make you happy?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Living in Shadows

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yarnandtea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/yarnandtea/gifts).



> A commission written for [yarnandtea](archiveofourown.org/users/yarnandtea). <3

Merrill found him at the Docks, with his feet hanging over the pier and the breeze sweeping his hair from his forehead. She sat beside him without a word, silently taking his hand. The corner of his lips twitched with a smile, and he let his fingers twine through hers. They sat there together for nearly an hour, not speaking, watching the sun settle against the water. The sky was orange, on fire, and Merrill sighed happily and inched a little lower, letting her toes touch the water.

She half-expected it to be warm with the sun, as though the ocean were swallowing the sun. The water was cold on her toes, but not so cold that she scooted back.

Finally, when it was dark and the only sound they could hear was the water sloshing against the pilings, Carver said, “You didn’t have to come.”

“Oh, I know,” Merrill said, “I wanted to. You asked me to come, so I did. Was that not what you wanted?”

His smile strengthened a bit. Merrill enjoyed when he smiled, when the dimples sunk deep in his cheeks and his teeth showed and that little crease on his brow went away. She might not have been the best judge of people, and perhaps her expectations were colored from her time with her Clan, but she had never known a person could be as sour and grim as Carver Hawke. So when he smiled, when he _really_ smiled, Merrill kept the warmth of it against her heart for a long time after.

“It’s what I wanted,” Carver whispered. His fingers squeezed around her own, his palm a little wet. Merrill wanted to ask him if he was sick, if that was why his palm was so damp and clammy, but she decided against it when she met his eyes. Some thought her to be naive, if not a little dim, but Merrill was neither of those things. She was trusting, yes, but not blind. She was a little gullible but not one to be pulled by the hand and led into a storm. She had her head on straight and her eyes were clear; sometimes it just took her a little longer to get to the heart of the matter.

Merrill had no trouble understanding when she looked into Carver’s eyes. They were bright and warm, as though somehow _they_ had managed to drink up the sun instead of the sea. He leaned in a little close, whispered an apology against her lips, and tried to lean back. Merrill caught his face in her hands and pulled him down, pressing their lips together. Tentative at first, wanting to explore, to test the waters as her toes did.

She melted into the kiss, and Carver followed. Merrill’s hands slipped from his face, thumbs brushing over his cheeks, and tucked under his jaw. Carver’s hand, meanwhile, found the nape of her neck, his other slipping through her hair, tangled in braids.

“You should have told me,” Merrill said. She still had her eyes closed, still felt Carver’s breath on her lips and his fingers tangled in her hair. She still wanted to kiss him, but she also wanted to breathe, wanted to take a moment to gather her senses and not let some silly boy do what she had always refused to let happen -- to drag her into the storm.

“When would I have done that?” Carver asked. “You were always with my brother, gallivanting around all over the place. When was I supposed to... tell you...that I...?”

“That you what?” Merrill asked. “Oh, that’s just _mean_ to start a sentence like that and not finish it. That you wanted to kiss me? That you wanted to sit at the docks and watch the sun set? Carver, it’s not fair when you---”

He kissed her again, hard, hand tight on the back of her neck. Merrill sighed into his mouth, curling her toes in the water, her hands leaving Carver’s jaw to tighten in his shirt.

When she looked up and into his eyes, she understood.

_That I love you_ , his eyes told her.

Merrill sighed again.

****

There was no doubt in her mind she’d find Carver at the Hanged Man, wallowing in self-pity and self-loathing and probably enough whiskey and ale to make even Isabela tipsy. She spotted him at a table in the corner, nursing a mug of beer and staring dismally into space. He looked paler than usual, with dark circles under his eyes and his hair messy and unbrushed.

Merrill sat down beside him, frowning when she touched his hand and Carver pulled back from her.

“Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for a chance like this?” Carver asked. His voice was steady, unslurred, so he wasn’t as drunk as Merrill had feared. Still, he was hurting, and because of that, _Merrill_ was hurting. “I’ve been waiting my entire life for a chance to prove myself, to show him I’m not just his little brother, and what does he do? He runs off without me, takes that blighted elf with him, instead of me. ‘I need a strong sword arm,’ is what he told me. He told me that. Like I’m not... Like my arm isn’t... _Sodding ass_.”

“I’m sure he just wanted you to be safe,” Merrill said. She tried again to reach for him, and this time Carver allowed her hand to rest over his own. “Your mother doesn’t need both of you going into a place that’s so dangerous. I’m sure he was just thinking of you because he loves you.”

“Well,” Carver sighed, “Piss on that, then.”

“Carver---”

“I just want to be alone,” Carver said. He pulled away from Merrill’s touch, tucking his hands under his armpits like a petulant child. He wouldn’t look at Merrill, and scoffed whenever she tried to say something to him. She understood he was upset -- and rightfully so considering it had been as much his expedition as Hawke’s -- but Merrill had done nothing to him. The most she had done was find him when he was hurting and tried to help him.

“Why won’t you let me help?” Merrill asked.

“There’s nothing you can do,” Carver said, “Just... go away, Merrill.”

Silly, really, how painful the words were, how they crashed against her heart like the heavy blow of Carver’s maul. Merrill wanted to tell him he didn’t mean that, he couldn’t possibly mean that -- but she found his eyes and she knew he did. Those eyes had never lied to her; not when they’d told her they loved her, not now when they told her to leave. Merrill nodded, passed her hand over Carver’s hair as she stood, and left the Hanged Man.

****

“You’re an ass,” Isabela said.

Well, what was the saying? ‘I’ve been called worse by better’. Carver had definitely been called worse, but he couldn’t say he’d been insulted by anyone better than Isabela. If the woman had a better out there, Carver had yet to meet them; at least there was no one better at twisting him up into knots and making him feel like an idiot.

“Yes,” Carver agreed. He looked up at Isabela with his eyes half-closed. She was blurry and indistinct, and her words had little effect on him. There were benefits to being pleasantly drunk, though Carver didn’t like the fuzziness of his thoughts and the way his throat felt hot and dry.

“I’m used to you being an ass,” Isabela said. She took a seat, and refused Carver the luxury of drawing away from her. She leaned forward and took him by the ear, giving a tweak that was somewhere between uncomfortable and painful. “But _not_ to her, understand, sweetheart? That girl is in love with you. I’m not sure why, but I’ve never been one to judge a woman for her... _taste_ in silly little boys. What you’re going to do is get up, _sober_ up, find Merrill and apologize.”

Carver tried to pull back from her, but Isabela tightened her grip on his ear, twisting a little harder. “Last thing I want is to talk to anyone,” Carver muttered, giving a pained grunt when Isabela twisted his ear _again._ “She doesn’t... She’ll be fine.”

It was difficult enough lying to Isabela, but nearly impossible to lie to himself. Merrill wasn’t as delicate as everyone made her out to be, but she was still tender-hearted, and for some reason no one could explain, she cared for him. Like most times in his life, Carver had made a mess of things. It was the honorable thing to do, if not the easiest, to find Merrill and tell her he was sorry. She wasn’t to blame for his brother leaving him behind, she wasn’t to blame for him having to live Hawke’s shadow his entire life, she wasn’t to blame for his mother being too scared to let him go, and she wasn’t to blame for his own deficiencies.

“Fine,” Carver grunted, “Fine. Let go of me.”

“Aww, sweetheart,” Isabela purred, “You love to pretend that your life is so difficult. That you’ve had to struggle so hard and sacrifice so much. Let me tell you something, though. You have people who love you, even when they shouldn’t. You’re a smart boy, Carver, you _know_ that.”

She released his ear, but didn’t move back. Her face was close to his own; close enough for Carver to feel her breath and smell the whiskey that rode on it.

“Stop being such a tit and do something with yourself,” Isabela whispered.

****

 

He found her sitting cross-legged on the floor of her bedroom, in front of some broken mirror that she had always left covered with a sheet when he was over. It was dark inside, almost too dark for him to see, but he moved to her easily enough and sat down beside her.

Carver wasn’t used to Merrill being so quiet. She was usually quite the chatter-box, not in an overbearing, irritating way, but in a way he enjoyed. She could talk for hours about Dalish history and lore, flowers, poetry, art – everything under the sun. Carver enjoyed her voice, how passionate she could be about things, how she fidgeted when she was especially excited about something.

“I’m sorry,” he blurted. He didn’t have tact, not even when he apologized. Carver didn’t feel like there was time to pussyfoot around when he knew what he wanted to say and what Merrill needed to hear. Isabela had been right – about everything, really, but especially about how Merrill felt about him, and how strange it was that she should. He had never been very confident in himself, in his abilities or his strength of character; but if his father had taught him anything, he had taught him that a good man owned his mistakes, and did what he could to rectify them. _No good comes from living in the past, Malcolm had taught his children, But plenty of good comes from learning from it._

“I’ve been thinking,” Merrill said, “About you and your brother.”

Either she hadn’t heard his apology, or had chosen to ignore it. Carver took her hand, smiling when her fingers folded over his. “Merrill,” he whispered, “I’m sorry. I never should have---“

“Can I ask you something?” Merrill interrupted. She turned her face to him, and he could see that she hadn’t spent the better part of the afternoon crying, or even being all that downhearted. She looked content, if not a little happy when she met his eyes and squeezed her fingers a little tighter over his. “Would you mind that?”

“No,” Carver said, “Ask anything you like.”

Her thumb caressed his knuckles. Carver wondered how he could have ever been so awful to someone so genuinely sweet, so incapable of hurting another person. Isabela shouldn’t have twisted his ear for the way he had treated Merrill – she should have twisted his balls.

“What would make you happy?” Merrill asked. “Oh, I know what you _like_. Swords, being a soldier, poetry… Though I’d never tell the others about that last one. But what would make you happy, Carver?”

There wasn’t an answer to the question, at least not one that Carver could settle on. When he’d been younger, he’d assumed being a soldier, fighting for his homeland, protecting his family would make him happy. He’d been wrong. All it had done was show him he wasn’t much of a soldier, and even worse at keeping his family safe. Lately, he’d wondered if the Templars were the answer, but it seemed like a slap in the face to his brother, and Bethany, and their father to join the very Order that hunted them like dogs.

“Having a home,” Carver said, “Having a family that’s not ripped apart. Having a mother who doesn’t look at me and see me as every mistake she’s ever made. Having a brother who looks at me and… well, _sees me_.”

 

“Think of something you can do,” Merrill said, “Think of something you can change. I just… You look so sad all of the time, and you get so angry, so lonely, so… Elgar’nan, I can’t think of the right way to say it. You live in a place no one else can get to. You’re…”

“Distant,” Carver whispered, “Closed off. Living with my head up my arse.”

Merrill smiled, softly, and let her fingers drift from his hand to his face. Her thumb stroked over his cheekbone in slow, easing circles. “Aww,” Merrill whispered, “Don’t be so hard on yourself. You have so much… good in you, Carver. So much that you could do and be if you just let yourself.”

“This,” Carver said.

Merrill’s face was against his throat, against his pulse. He could feel her breath, feel her body against him, her hips under his hands. He could smell her, elfroot and spice, and he closed his eyes and breathed a little deeper.

“What?” Merrill asked. 

“This makes me happy,” Carver said. He was flushed, and he was sure Merrill could feel it against her face. The only time in his life where he’d ever felt so awkward and unsure of himself had been with Peaches, and she hadn’t even noticed him, let alone placed herself in his arms and her lips over his pulse. He was calmer in the middle of a horde of darkspawn than he was with one little elf girl pressed tight and warm against him. Isabela was right, he really was a tit.

Merrill laughed -- _giggled_ , which only made Carver blush harder because he was quite sure there wasn’t anyone else as adorable and beautiful as she was -- and let her hand rest a little further south from his cheek. Actually, a lot further south. Carver wondered how there was still enough blood to fill his face.

“Ooh,” Merrill purred, giving a small nip over his pulse. “I can tell you are.”

“N-No. Not that... _You_ make me happy,” Carver whispered. He didn’t trust himself to speak any louder. He didn’t trust his voice not to squeak like a little boy’s.

“You make me happy too,” Merrill said. “I just wish you would smile more.” She moved her face against his throat, tucked under his jaw, her breath hot enough to boil his blood; at least that was how it felt. “Have I ever told you that you look like the sweetest thing when you smile?” Merrill asked, “Like a puppy dog.”

Creators, that wasn’t what she wanted to say. What Merrill wanted to say was that Carver was as much a part of her as her Clan, as vital as breath, branded on her flesh as deep as her Vallaslin, branded on her heart.

Instead, she called him a puppy dog.

Well, it was about the same. Close enough.

“I’m more like a Mabari,” Carver chuckled, “I’m big and stubborn and I make a mess of everything.”

“But they’re cute,” Merrill said, “And they have big hearts. And heads. Yes, big heads. But big cute heads.”

“Merrill,” Carver laughed.

“And they’re faithful, and loyal, and sweet, and trusting. And sometimes they say the silliest things, but they always mean well.”

“Are we still talking about Mabari?” Carver asked.

“Ohh, no,” Merrill said, “I messed that up, didn’t I?”

His hands cradled the back of her head, leading her face away from the hollow of his throat. It was dark, but he didn’t need to see to find her lips. Carver kissed Merrill deeply, deep enough to take her breath and make it his own. That was alright, it was good in fact; Carver exhaled a moment later and filled her lungs while Merrill filled her hands with his hair.

It never failed to amaze Carver how he could lose himself so hopelessly and completely in one woman. His brother had chuckled at Carver’s infatuation with Merrill and at their fumbling flirtations. “You’ve got as good a chance of wooing her as you do of wooing a Genlock with a face like yours,” Hawke had said, “But I say go for it. You need something sweet, brother. Maker knows we all do.”

“I love you,” Carver said. He would not allow his eyes to carry the burden of that truth alone. He wanted it on his lips, on his tongue, right against the curve of Merrill’s mouth. 

He was not defined by the persecution of his father, or the hopes and dreams of his mother. He was not defined by the shadow of his brother or the ghost of his sister. What defined Carver was the little bit of warmth he kept in his heart, and the little smile that still held at the corner of his mouth, and the woman in his arms, her breath his breath, her pulse his pulse.

What defined him was what he chose to do, not what was forced upon him, not the running away, but the standing up, the fighting, the gritting of his teeth and the sweat at his temple.

What defined him were those words, spoken hushed against Merrill’s mouth and later, against her thigh.

“I love you,” Carver said.

“Mm, that’s what I’ve heard,” Merrill said. Her laugh filled the room, filled _him_ , and he laughed with her until his tongue was on her wet skin and his laugh was muffled.


End file.
